Coming Home
by Jaimi-Sam
Summary: Life doesn't stop for anybody, even Jeff Tracy.


_This story was written for the Tracy Island Writers Forum 2k Photo Challenge. We all had to choose one of three photos to base a 2000-word story around. My choice was #2, an infant's hand resting in the palm of an adult. _

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><p><em><strong>COMING HOME <strong> _

He jolted awake in the black pre-dawn, sweat soaking the white cotton of his teeshirt.

The room was dark and still, the only sound the faint hum of the air conditioning. Which one had it been this time? Vague scraps of memory floated just out of reach… a treacherous road, wind, driving rain, small voices crying out for help that never came…

He sat up abruptly, snapping on the lamp so the light would dispel the pounding and the panic. His surroundings, this generic, transitory place that had no association whatsoever with his family, calmed him. Nothing personal in this room at all. No pictures on the walls, no pillow on a bedside chair embroidered by his mother's sister Laura, no knick knacks crowded on the bureau, waiting for him to get around to putting up another shelf. No—

Wife.

Iron fingers clamped brutally around his chest. He hunched over, the breath he dragged in against the will of his lungs sounding very much like a sob.

Slowly, bit by bit, he dug down deep and got hold of the darkness, forcing it to recede again. When he was enough in control to look up once more, the softly glowing numerals on the bedside clock told him it was 4:15 am.

Might as well get up and get the day started.

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><p>By the time Rosemary O'Sullivan arrived at their office at seven-thirty, Jeff was working on his second mug of strong black coffee and wading through a sea of reports and blueprints on the moon colony project. He'd already interrupted an engineering contact's lunch in London and a fellow astronaut's dinner in Beijing with questions and had covered several pages of his desk pad with notes.<p>

He smelled the breakfast tacos the minute his longtime friend and now right-hand woman opened the outer door to their suite. "Food!" he called out. "How did you know I was starving?"

Rosemary stuck her head around the doorframe, wearing a startled expression. "Jeff! What are you doing here?"

He stared at her blankly. "I work here."

"Not today, you don't. You're supposed to be on a plane for Kansas City!"

"Oh, crap," he said, folding in on himself. "I completely forgot…"

She clucked her tongue, coming round the desk and hustling him out of the chair. "Get on back to the apartment right now and throw your things in a case; I'll book you on a later flight and text you with the details. Oh, and I'll call Ruth as well. They'll worry if you don't show up when you're supposed to."

Somehow she'd maneuvered him all the way to the outer door. He caught hold of the frame, made a last ditch plea for mercy. "Rosie, couldn't I just—"

Her brows drew together. "We've gone all over this," she said firmly. "It's been six months. I know you're here building a future for those boys of yours, but they need more than your money. They need _you_."

There was nothing he could say to that. Defeated, he let her push him into the hall and close the door behind him.

* * *

><p>In the past, Jeff had always liked to fly Southwest Airlines. He was drawn to the warmth and the sense of humor of that airline's crews. But today he was glad that the substitute flight Rosemary had found was on American instead, because it had been a while since he'd felt much like laughing.<p>

The two hour flight was over far too fast. As he disembarked with the other passengers at Kansas City International, walking by the couples and families greeting each other at the gate, Jeff was very glad he still had an hour's drive in front of him. Home wasn't the easy destination it had once been.

As he headed the rental car westbound from Kansas City, it dawned on him that he'd missed an entire season. The harvest had come and gone, the straw bales sat baking in the fields in the September sun. The leaves would start changing color soon. It was like the last half-year had been swallowed by time.

_Time_. As a child, he had sometimes wondered what it must have been like for the pioneers who first brought their horses and wagons here, when the prairie grasses had been so tall a man could disappear into them. He had tried to imagine the isolation of those times when there were no computers, or radio, or even telephones. The silence.

Now he stared at the two lane blacktop and wished his mind could find that silence. It was useless, of course. Lucy was all over this landscape, as much a part of him as the fields of winter wheat, the tall cottonwoods and the signature brown and gold sunflowers of the home that he loved. He couldn't look at any of it without seeing her.

He couldn't remember life without her. He didn't know who he was, without her. Nothing made sense any more. The roaring started in his ears again, the pain in his chest crushing him and robbing him of breath. He broke out in sweat; pulled the car over to the shoulder and sat there, forehead lowered to the rim of the steering wheel.

_I can't do this. I can't…_

He fumbled in his jeans pocket for his Motorola Razr, flipping it open to dial his parents' number.

Rosemary's voice rang in his ears. _They need more than your money. They need _you_._

Jeff let his arm drop, slumping back against the seat. Slowly, he put phone back into his pocket and steered the car back on to the highway.

He could have done this drive in his sleep. Before he knew it he was making the familiar right hand turn on to the dirt and gravel road that led to the Tracy family farm. The flag was down on the battered old mailbox that bore their name; someone had already checked it that day.

A half mile later he rounded the final bend, and there before him was the old white farmhouse with the wraparound porch. It needed painting, he thought, with a pang of guilt. Ridiculous, really, to feel guilty – he hadn't called this place home for many years. But he was his father's son, and a responsibility was a responsibility no matter how old you got.

He pulled up beside his father's old F150. Grant Tracy had driven that truck longer than his son could remember, and the paintwork was marred by many scratches and dents. But Jeff knew if he started it up right this moment, it would run like silk.

He killed the rental's engine. As the quiet rushed in, he heard the sounds of children laughing. Cold sweat broke out down his spine, and he sat there for a few moments with his head back and his eyes tightly closed.

_They need _you_._

Jeff forced himself out of the car.

His boots rang hollowly on the boards of the porch as he circled the house toward the back garden. The memories assaulted him mercilessly as he paused in the shadows, watching.

His second son, chestnut-haired Virgil, sat crosslegged in the dirt and made enthusiastic "Vroom, vroom!" sounds as he pitted toy trucks against each other in a pretend monster truck rally. Three-year-old John, the tow-head, kicked out his little legs in glee on the swing that hung from the lower branches of the huge old cottonwood tree. "John go high!" he called out, laughing as his eldest brother, Scott, pushed him into the air.

His mother sat in her old rocking chair near the steps, watching them play. Gordon was nowhere to be seen, and Jeff, lost in this wonderful tableau, could almost believe that his second youngest was in the kitchen with Lucy, and they would come out together, any moment now…

The back door banged, making Jeff start. He'd been holding his breath, caught up in the fantasy. It was indeed Gordon who had burst out on to the porch, but of course he was alone. There was no Lucy. There was never going to be a Lucy, not ever again.

The sheer finality of it stabbed him through the heart. This time it hurt so bad he gasped out loud with the pain, leaning hard against the white siding, feeling as though the earth would open and swallow him up.

"_Daddy!" _

A small whirlwind crashed into his leg, clinging on for dear life and jolting him back to reality. Jeff's eyes burned; he reached down and ran his hand through Gordon's silky red-gold hair.

Ruth was on her feet, looking at him, the afternoon sun painting fiery highlights into the hair that was an identical match for his second youngest son's. Jeff realized he'd been expecting his mother to be angry with him, but all he saw in her eyes now was relief; happiness that he'd come.

It struck him then that he wasn't the only person in this family who'd been holding his breath.

Jeff gently disengaged Gordon and took him by the hand, leading him down the porch to his grandmother. Jeff wrapped his free arm around her and for a moment mother and son just hugged each other in silence.

"You're looking thin," she said to him at last, standing back. "Rosemary tells me you've been working hard."

The guilt rose thick and choking in his throat. He didn't trust himself to do anything but nod.

Virgil and John had reached them now and he hugged each one in turn, struggling to hold back the tears. He'd forgotten what this felt like, the sheer power of this love that welled up inside him at their presence. He'd spent so long numbing himself, trying not to feel anything at all, and now it felt as though it would split him open.

His mother said, "There's someone else here you need to get acquainted with."

For the first time he saw the brightly-colored covered bassinet beside her.

Jeff froze.

Ruth bent down, lifted the baby in her arms. He fussed a little, opening huge cornflower-blue eyes.

Jeff took an involuntary step back, colliding with the wall of the house. The memories of that night crashed into him. The hospital, the fear, the blood, the look on the doctor's face as he told him they'd tried everything they could, but it hadn't been enough to save his wife, his Lucy, his beautiful Lucy. She was gone, and there was nothing anyone could do to bring her back. But his newborn son had survived, delivered with the help of his eldest in their truck while the storm howled around them. Would he like to see him?

_No,_ he'd said, a hole punched through him that held all the pain and shock and grief in the world. _I can't. I can't._

"I can't." He repeated it now. And now, finally, he knew why – could give a name and a form to the terror and the panic he'd felt the moment he'd laid eyes on his newborn son. Deep inside him was an insane thought…If he didn't hold him, didn't think about him, he wouldn't be real, and Lucy wouldn't be dead. He could still turn back time, somehow, if he didn't let this baby be real.

Ruth Tracy's voice turned to steel. "You can, Jefferson Grant Tracy, and you will. This is your son, and he needs you, and this family doesn't raise cowards."

A movement caught his eye, then. His eldest son stood halfway up the porch steps. Alone of the boys, Scott hadn't run to greet his father. He said nothing, just regarded Jeff with a wary, troubled expression in his deep blue eyes.

Jeff looked at him, remembering. His eldest hadn't spoken for three days after the accident. Not only that, but the morning after that terrible night, Jeff and his parents, who had flown down the minute they heard about the accident, had awoken in their hotel suite to find Scott missing. After a panicked search, Jeff had finally gotten a call from the hospital, where Scott was keeping watch on his new baby brother through the glass of the nursery.

Just like he was doing now. Poised to protect him, to intervene if necessary.

Pride swelled so hard in Jeff that he could barely breathe.

It was time for him to be a father again, to let this brave boy stand down from his watch. "It's OK, Scott," he managed. "Everything's going to be OK, now. I promise."

He looked back at his mother, took a deep breath, and let her settle the baby into his arms.

"Hello, Alan," he said, reaching down and enfolding the infant's tiny hand in his.


End file.
